The Family Thief
by bemj11
Summary: Someone is stealing families, and Lestrade, who always said that children did not belong anywhere near the Yard, is dragging his kids to work. Holmes, Watson, and the Inspectors have one week before the latest victim goes the same way as the last four.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: This is written in Watson's POV, by the way.

* * *

My first thought was that it was not in the least bit logical for the small man to be _capable_ of carrying three children like that. Nonetheless, there he was, with one hanging off his back, one resting on his hip, and the other anchored firmly to his left leg.

My second thought was that there was no way on earth the man would ever be caught in such an undignified situation, especially not around his co-workers, and especially not in a place that he had commented on numerous occasions was no place for children to be running about, usually after one of Holmes' Irregulars had been here to deliver a message.

I wondered if I were seeing things, but Inspector Gregson was staring incredulously at the man as well.

Inspector Lestrade, for his part, either did not find his current situation all that unusual, or did not care if it was. "Morning." He said to the two of us, as if nothing out of the ordinary were occurring and he weren't currently hauling three children around Scotland Yard.

"Good morning." I replied. Gregson was still staring.

"Is Mr. Holmes here?" Lestrade inquired, looking about for the man in question.

"He said he would meet us here." I said. "He had something to look into first."

Lestrade's frown was gone before I could even be certain it was there. "Good." He said. Then he considered the child hanging from his neck. "Perhaps your office might be a better place to meet today, Gregson."

"All right." Gregson said, recovering himself slightly. "Lestrade, why-"

"I need to get some work done before we meet." Lestrade interrupted the other Inspector. "Come get me when Mr. Holmes arrives, if you would."

"Certainly." Gregson replied. Lestrade strode off, his stride hardly affected by the burden he bore. Gregson and I stared after him until he disappeared down the hall.

I turned to look at the Inspector. "Does he-" I floundered for the words to describe the absurdity of the situation.

Gregson shook his head. "Lestrade is the last person I would ever imagine bringing his children to work with him. It's unprofessional."

"But he just did." I commented.

"Yes, he did." Gregson's agreement on the matter was less than reassuring given that he was wearing the look of one who is convinced that he is seeing things.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	2. Chapter 2

I knocked on the door of Lestrade's office.

"Come in." I opened the door and stepped just inside.

Lestrade was sitting at his desk, a pile of papers before him, a folder in his left hand, and his right hand hidden under a second stack of papers. He did not look up from what he was reading.

His three children were sitting on the floor in a line, backs against the wall. His oldest sat with a book in his lap, his brow furrowed and his lips moving silently as he struggled with the words before him. The two girls were busily drawing on slate boards with small pieces of chalk.

I cleared my throat to tell the Inspector that Holmes was here; I was interrupted as Inspector Jones slipped around me to demand to know where a report that was supposed to have been filed _two days ago_ was.

"Inspector?" Jones demanded when the man did not automatically respond.

Lestrade _did_ look up then, first at me, then at Jones. He looked as if he had not slept at all last night, though it was hard to tell if you did not know to look for the increased, _forced_, sharpness in his eyes and his posture.

Lestrade looked idly around the desk for a moment, another sign of how tired he was, then rifled through the stack of papers he was holding, selected one, and held it out to the other Inspector.

Jones all but snatched it from Lestrade's hand. A second later he favored the man with an indignant glare. "This is blank!" He declared. "You were supposed to have it written up the following morning, before the details had a chance to fade."

Lestrade didn't seem put out at being told his job. "I have an account written." He replied, going back to the files he was perusing. "I just haven't gotten a chance to clean it up yet."

"It doesn't have to be perfect, Lestrade." Jones growled. Lestrade sighed, sensing the man wasn't going to go away, and reached into a desk drawer.

"Here." He flipped a small notebook at the other Inspector. "If you can read it, you're more than welcome to it. Otherwise, you might be able to get Hopkins to help, if he's not busy. May I help you, Doctor?" That quickly, Jones had been dismissed.

"Holmes is here." I informed him. Inspector Lestrade stood, the file still in his hand, and turned to glance over at his children.

He escorted us out of the room without a word to them, and I was surprised to hear the lock click in the door a few seconds later.

Lestrade wasted no time on either Jones or myself, but strode down the hall to Gregson's office.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	3. Chapter 3

"The family-snatcher took another last night." Lestrade commented as we entered the room.

For five weeks in a row now, someone had been kidnapping women and their small children, acting as if they were his own family, then killing them a week later and leaving their bodies to be found in the streets. He drugged the women, we knew, and beat them, to gain their submission. The children would simply follow their mothers' lead, for the most part, though a few older children had been discovered with bruises as well.

Holmes scoffed at the announcement. "Really, Lestrade? How on earth could you have managed to deduce that?" His tone was scathing. The longer this case went unsolved, the more Holmes seemed to be taking it personally, and he had consequently become more critical of the Yard than usual.

"It's not as if he hasn't been doing this for five weeks now." Holmes continued irritably. "I would say by this point that that such a statement of the obvious would have been beneath even you, Inspector."

Lestrade stiffened, and went red. The next second all the color drained from his face. Without a word the man turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him with a force that rattled the objects on Gregson's desk.

Gregson leaned back and checked his watch. "Give him about three minutes, Holmes." He said. "He'll be back as soon as he's calmed down, though what you said to make him madder than I've seen him in years I don't have a clue."

A worried looking Hopkins peeked in as he returned his watch to his pocket. "No one's been hurt." Gregson assured him. "You saw Lestrade, I take it."

Hopkins let out a low whistle. "The last time I saw him anywhere near that angry was when his wife showed up and dropped some dinner off for him and Jones mistook her for a maid and described her in less that respectful terms for the amusement of the Yard in general." He paused. "It's not often you see the Inspector on the verge of committing a violent, brutal murder."

"I remember." Gregson nodded. "I thought he was going to kill Jones then and there, room full of witnesses and everything."

"I think some people were hoping he would." Hopkins replied. "I have that report you wanted."

"Bring in a seat." Gregson offered, considering his watch once more. "Might be eight minutes." He decided.

It had been ten before the Inspector returned and plopped listlessly into his chair.

"Are you all right?" Gregson asked, and Lestrade seemed to pull himself together.

"Yes." He replied, with some of his usual briskness. "Go on, Hopkins." His attention, however, drifted back to the files he had brought with him almost before the man started speaking. His pencil scratched quietly as Hopkins read.

"The report says that the mother and her two young daughters were found on Tash Street at approximately 9:15 pm by Inspector Bradstreet." Hopkins summarized. He paused for a moment, hopeful. "There have been no new reports of kidnapping."

"That's because the report hasn't been turned in yet." Lestrade said, leaning forward to hand the paper he had been writing on to Hopkins.

The young man took one look at it and paled. "Elisabeth Lestrade was taken from her home shortly before midnight." His voice shook lightly as he read, and all eyes went to the Inspector, who was still, giving Hopkins the same attention as he would have given any other report.

"Her husband returned home around 4:00 the following morning to find the house dark and his family missing. A hastily written letter indicated that Mrs. Lestrade had been awakened and had been able to rouse the children and get them out of harm's way before the kidnapper came upon her." Hopkins stopped to take a breath, and looked to Lestrade, but the Inspector seemed unbothered by what he was hearing.

"The children were found hiding under the bed in the parents' bedroom." Hopkins continued reading. "According to the oldest of the three, not long after they were told to hide they heard sounds of a struggle from downstairs. The noise ceased shortly before the clock began striking twelve."

The room was silent as Hopkins finished the report.

"Giles-" Gregson breathed.

"She left you a note?" Holmes, predictably, ignored the growing tension in the room.

Lestrade wordlessly handed over a rumpled looking piece of paper. Holmes glanced at it, then passed it on to me.

"Do your job, Inspector." It read. "Don't forget the chamomile."

"Chamomile?" I asked as I passed the note on to Gregson.

"Tea. It helps me sleep." Lestrade replied automatically. "It also meant the children were under the bed."

"And here I always thought you didn't have an imagination." Holmes commented idly. "Rather formal message for a woman to leave her husband, though, isn't it, Lestrade?"

"I'm an Inspector of Scotland Yard first and foremost; she knew that." Lestrade replied flatly.

"She was reminding you of the fact." Holmes suggested.

"He'll be after the children next." I cut in. Lestrade was starting to turn red again.

"I am sending them to stay with her mother in the country." Lestrade allowed himself to be distracted from Holmes. His tone was once again nothing more than a mix of professionalism and business.

"Will they be safe there?" I asked.

"Have you met his mother-in-law?" Gregson demanded. "She's the model for evil in-laws worldwide. She once beat a would-be mugger half to death with only her handbag, dragged him down to the Yard, and spent the next hour criticizing Lestrade's ability to do his job when a respectable woman couldn't walk through London unmolested."

"They'll be safe." Lestrade confirmed, shooting an irritated glance at the other Inspector. He turned back to Holmes, and I briefly wondered if he were going to start up with my friend again.

I should have known better. "I suppose you will wish to see the room where she was taken. Nothing has been so much as touched."

Holmes nodded. "I should like to see it as soon as possible." He replied, standing.

Lestrade hesitated, briefly. "We can go now." He sounded uncertain.

"Inspector?" Hopkins ventured. When Lestrade turned to look at him, the young man reddened. "I'll keep an eye on your children, if you'd like. They really shouldn't be left alone."

Lestrade blinked. "Yes, thank you, Hopkins. Come on, I'll introduce you."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	4. Chapter 4

"Will he be a liability if you keep him on this case?" Holmes asked softly as Hopkins and Lestrade disappeared into the hall.

"He should be fine. His job comes first. Always." Gregson replied. "Still, best to keep an eye on him, just in case." He rose and went to follow the other Inspectors.

I allowed myself to worry. "We only have a week, Holmes."

Holmes didn't say a word, but followed Gregson out into to hall. Lestrade was now standing in front of his office, his left fingers raised to his mouth. As I watched, he let out a shrill whistle that made a few men down the hall jump.

The door unlocked, and a small boy peeked out. He looked every bit as wary as his father always did when on a stakeout. It was almost like staring at a smaller copy of the Inspector.

"There's someone I'd like to introduce you to." Lestrade said as the boy opened the door to let him in his own office. The boy looked from one of us to the other, starting with Holmes. Finally his gaze settled on Hopkins.

"He's the only one I don't know." The boy said. "I remember when Mr. Holmes and the Doctor came over for dinner one time, and Inspector Gregson is the one that dragged you home when you got hurt on Olivia's birthday."

Lestrade didn't quite smile. "This is Inspector Hopkins." He introduced the man. "Inspector, this is Jackie, my eldest. The other two are Amy and Olivia." Here the girls stood and came over to stare up at Hopkins.

"Hi." Hopkins said nervously.

"You're going to be staying with Inspector Hopkins for a bit." Lestrade informed the three. "I don't want any trouble out of you. Not even if you get bored."

Jackie and Amy nodded, but Olivia just continued to stare up at the young Inspector. "Don't worry about us, Da." Jackie said after a moment. "We'll be good."

"See that you are." Lestrade said sternly. He turned to Hopkins. "Thank you." He said awkwardly. "I know it's-"

Hopkins cut him off. "I've been needing to catch up on some paperwork anyway." He said. "We'll be in my office, Inspector." He turned to give Jackie an uncertain smile. "Come on, then. Let your Dad get back to his work."

Jackie smiled back, and let Hopkins lead the way. His sisters stayed close to him, but followed without any show of reluctance.

"I know they aren't used to being handed around like that." Gregson commented. "How is it you get them to behave so well?"

I was surprised when Lestrade answered lightly. "I told them if they didn't behave I'd pack them in a trunk and send them straight to their Grandmother's that way instead of letting her come and get them." He was doing a better job at hiding the strain he was under that I would have expected. "Shall we? I doubt it will take very long for Hopkins to regret his offer."

He was also doing a good job of pretending that it _wasn't_ almost painful for him to have parts of his personal life on display here at the Yard.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	5. Chapter 5

I had been to Lestrade's house once before, when he had invited Holmes and myself over for dinner. It was his wife's doing, Gregson had said; the woman insisted that he invite people over on occasion. That visit had been interesting for me, though admittedly somewhat of a trial for both Holmes and Lestrade.

But I remembered that while the Inspector's home had been simple, it had also been neat, with simple touches here and there that suggested that the home was simple by preference rather than necessity. I remembered the sitting room as being warm and welcoming in spite of the plainness of it.

There had been an armchair by the fire, and a rocking chair. A couch had rested along the wall opposite the fireplace, and there had been a desk and chair along the wall that separated the sitting room from the dining room. There had been a bench along the last wall. A small table had sat in front of the couch, and there was a clock and a few odd objects on the mantel.

Lestrade paused outside the doorway, allowing Holmes to pass through. The room was now a wreck, with chairs and the table and the bench overturned. The only area untouched was the desk I assumed was Lestrade's. Everything there remained in perfect condition.

Holmes immediately set upon the room, and the Inspectors and I stayed back and out of the way. He went over every inch of the room, and Lestrade watched with an air of professional disinterest, as if this were just any other crime scene, until Holmes approached the desk that seemed to have escaped damage.

Lestrade started. "Mr. Holmes, I don't-" Just as quickly, he cut himself off. He resigned himself to watching Holmes poke through the desk, his agitation growing with every second. I realized Gregson was also watching Lestrade more than he was Holmes, and the other Inspector actually looked impressed.

Finally, Gregson spoke. "I very much doubt the devil himself would dare to mess with Lestrade's desk, Holmes. As much as I enjoy seeing my fellow Inspector squirm, I think you've probably found everything you're going to there."

Holmes looked up, slightly annoyed. Then he caught sight of Lestrade's expression, and must have read something there, for he left the desk and came to stand in the middle of the room. "There are bloodstains in the carpet." He informed us, and I checked to make sure Lestrade would be able to take the sudden announcement.

Lestrade merely nodded. "I doubt she would have been taken without a fight." He said. "And if someone was here who shouldn't be, she would not have met them unarmed."

"I did find a discarded handle of some sort under the couch. The blade seems to have broken off." Holmes offered it for our examination.

"Her mother gave her that." Lestrade said absently. "It's supposed to strike bone and stick if you stab someone with it. If you jerk it, the blade breaks, making it that much harder to remove."

I shuddered at the idea, and wondered at the fact that Gregson didn't bat an eye at either the description of the weapon or that Lestrade's wife would have had one.

"He's been wounded, that's something." Gregson said. "Where do you think she would have aimed?"

"She would probably have gone for the leg." Lestrade suggested. "Harder to walk away that way. Probably the left leg as well, though I would be surprised if she didn't leave some scratches on his face too."

"You seem to have stayed out of the sitting room as much as possible." Holmes commented. "Where did you find the note?"

Lestrade promptly flushed, but answered anyway. "In the washroom." Judging by Holmes and Gregson's expressions, I wasn't the only one who found that an odd place to look for a note in the absence of one's family.

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably, and threatened to blush again. "We leave each other messages there, sometimes." He clarified, his voice even. "Since the washroom is the first place I stop when I get home, I automatically check for notes."

"Show me where you found the note." Holmes directed, and Lestrade gestured for us to follow him.

"It was under there." Lestrade pointed to a bottle of what I guessed was alcohol; I could not be sure what kind, for the label was completely missing.

Gregson's eyes widened. "It's true, then, isn't it?"

Lestrade looked up towards the ceiling. "It stings, but it also seems to burn out just about any chance of infection." He replied uncomfortably. "And don't ask me what it is or where my wife gets it, because I don't know. I'm probably better off not knowing."

Holmes briefly considered the bottle, and the space underneath. He then took a quick glance around the rest of the washroom, which furthered Lestrade's discomfort with the whole situation.

"And you found the children…"

"Upstairs. Under the bed." Lestrade said through clenched teeth. "I suppose you want to see that as well?"

Holmes nodded, and I felt I should intervene.

"Holmes." I whispered as Lestrade led us back through the sitting room and up a flight of stairs. "Lestrade's under a lot of pressure right now. You might-"

"Lestrade understands that I am only doing my job." Holmes replied in an undertone.

The poor Inspector didn't utter a word as Holmes methodically went through his room. I was actually qute impressed by the Inspector's stoic acceptance of our invasion of his bedroom. Lestrade had always been a private individual, in fact it seemed one learned personal details about him almost by accident, and having the three of us traipsing around his house must have been sheer torture for him.

"Don't!" Lestrade finally snapped, as Holmes absently opened an envelope he had found under the bed. In two seconds he had crossed the room and snatched the envelope from my friend's hands. "That-" He had gone red again. "That has nothing to do with the kidnappings." He stammered, tucking the envelope into his jacket.

Holmes merely raised an eyebrow, and Lestrade swallowed nervously. "It-it's a letter. For my wife. Should anything ever happen to me." He finally explained.

Holmes blinked as the Inspector mumbled something incomprehensible and all but fled from the room. Gregson watched him go, a serious expression on his face.

"Give him a minute." The Inspector said in a low voice. He sighed and turned to Holmes. "Tread softly, Holmes. It's hard enough on him to have us here, with parts of his life laid wide open for our inspection, without the added stress of his wife missing. I don't know if you've noticed, but Lestrade doesn't volunteer personal information."

I nodded. "This must be torture for him."

Gregson shrugged. "At least it's you two." He replied. My confusion must have shown, because he tried to explain. "He's familiar with you two, and comfortable with you, after a fashion." He looked as if he were considering saying more, but a sharp knocking sounded downstairs, interrupting our conversation.

We returned downstairs to see Lestrade opening the door carefully, his hand resting by his gun. His expression cleared, and he forced himself to relax. "Hello, Katie." He smiled.

"I came by earlier, Mister Lestrade, but the door was locked." A young lady was speaking. Her voice was timid as she addressed the Inspector.

Lestrade sighed, and rubbed his temple. "My wife must have forgotten to mention that she and the children would be visiting her mother again, I fear. Your services won't be needed for at least the week, Katie."

"Are you certain, Mister Lestrade? Your wife says that-"

"And my wife isn't here, Katie." Lestrade interrupted wearily. "Don't worry, she won't blame you."

The girl hesitated. "Mister-?" Then she nodded. "Let me know when my services will be required again, please." She turned to go.

Lestrade shook his head, and stepped outside after her, closing the door behind him. A few long minutes later, he returned. "Is there anything else in the house you wish to see, Mr. Holmes?" He asked.

Holmes frowned. "That was-?"

"The maid." He said promptly, but offered nothing more.

"I think we are done here." Holmes said after a moment. Lestrade looked relieved; it was a wonder he didn't give a shout of joy at the idea of getting us out of his home.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	6. Chapter 6

Author's note: I'm feeling generous today, so you guys get two chapters. Also, I'd like to take minute to thank those of you who have reviewed that I can't reply to personally, and to let you know how encouraging it is. Thanks.

* * *

Lestrade paused outside of Hopkins' office door long enough to let loose that odd whistle again, then knocked.

"Come in." Hopkins called. Lestrade opened the door and braced himself.

Three children looked up, saw their father, and promptly flung themselves at him. He crouched to their level and met their approach head on. I watched in amazement as the Inspector caught Jackie and slung the boy over his shoulder while at the same time catching the youngest as she latched onto his neck. He wobbled for a moment as the middle child tried to climb into his unoccupied arm, then straightened up. The three children giggled as he lifted them off the ground.

"Have they given you any trouble, Hopkins?" Lestrade asked, apparently oblivious to the spectacle he currently was. "Stop kicking, Jackie." He said mildly as he slid his grip so the boy hung further down his back and was held in place only by the Inspector's grip on his ankle.

"No trouble." Hopkins replied when he remembered Lestrade had asked him a question. "Jackie was translating your shorthand for Jones."

Lestrade frowned. "You aren't supposed to be reading that stuff." He scolded the boy. "Not when you can't read actual English."

"But yours is faster!" The still giggling boy gasped. "Besides, I spent all morning practicing reading. I was bored."

"So you found some work to do."

"Mum says-" The boy stopped as his stomach growled. "And I'm hungry, Da."

The youngest perked up at that. "Me too." She piped.

Hopkins flushed, embarrassed at the thought that he had been less than observant in that area. Lestrade saw, and was quick to reassure him. "Their mother doesn't let them ask for food, not unless they're home. You couldn't have known."

The middle child chose to look up then. "I'm hungry too." She said, apparently having decided it was safe to say as much.

"Are you starving my grandchildren, Giles?" A sharp, feminine voice demanded. Lestrade nearly grimaced.

"Hello, Grandma!" Jackie called. "He's starving us to death! We haven't eaten in years and years and-" He stopped abruptly as his father jostled him, and visons of the boy slipping and landing on his head flashed before my eyes.

"For heaven's sakes, Giles, this isn't a zoo, and those aren't monkeys! Put my grandchildren down." Lestrade obliged, and turned to greet the grey haired, sharp-eyed woman that was standing in the doorway.

"Mrs. Lindgren." He managed a very fake smile. "You got my message?"

The woman sniffed, and stepped forward as if to examine the man. I felt sorry for the Inspector; his mother-in-law practically loomed over him. "I did. I see you're as blunt as ever."

"It saves time." Lestrade replied mildly. "You don't mind keeping the children?"

"I love having them down, you know that." The woman assured him. I felt as if I were watching some sort of sparring match as she retorted to his first statement. "I suppose it saves you the effort of thinking before you speak as well."

"My brain has yet to keep up with my mouth." Lestrade countered. "Thank you. Can you head back tonight?"

"After I feed the children. I doubt your brain ever will." The rapid fire of words between the two was disconcerting, and just a little difficult to keep track of.

"Of course." Lestrade flushed. "I have to admit it slipped my mind."

The woman rolled her eyes. "Should I be wary of trouble while the children are with us?" She asked pointedly. Lestrade sighed.

"I'm afraid so." He admitted. "If you could keep them until I send for them…"

"Certainly. Come along, you three. We'll see if we can't get rid of some of your father's influence while you're with us." The woman said, turning to her grandchildren.

The two girls went, after a nod from Lestrade, but Jackie hesitated. Mrs. Lindgren sighed. "We'll be waiting in the hall, Giles."

"Thank you." Lestrade replied as his son lunged forward to wrap his father's legs in a tight hug.

"I don't want t' go, Da." The boy mumbled into his father's legs.

I marveled at the fact that Lestrade seemed oblivious to the fact that he had an audience as he placed a hand on the boy's head. "I know." He said softly. "But I need to know you three are safe. I need you to keep an eye on your sisters, Jackie, and keep them out of trouble."

"I know, Da." The boy sniffled. "An' I will. Promise." He blinked back a tear. "And you'll find Ma, right?"

"I'll do my best." Lestrade's voice was nearly a whisper. "Not a word, Jackie."

The boy shot him a scandalized look. "If you didn't tell her, I'm not going to. Nothing's wrong at all, right?"

Lestrade sighed. "Right. Go on. They're waiting for you."

The boy scampered out into the hall after his grandmother and sisters. Still oblivious to our presence, Lestrade released a sigh as his shoulders slumped and his gaze drifted heavenward. After a moment, he ran a hand through his hair, straightened himself back up, and turned to us.

"Shall we get back to work?" He asked, once again every bit the professional.

I wondered how long he could keep this up.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	7. Chapter 7

Holmes waited for everyone to get comfortable before he began sharing what he had learned from our trip to Lestrade's home. "The kidnapper approached the house and began picking the lock. Mrs. Lestrade was either already awake-"

"The key in the lock wakes her up." Lestrade interrupted absently. "She knows the sound, and wakes up in case its me."

Holmes nodded. "And when it wasn't, she feared the worst. Did she know what case you've been working on?" At Lestrade's nod, Holmes went on. "She roused the children, and hid them, and quickly wrote a note. She managed to leave it in the washroom and be in the sitting room when the kidnapper got in. She might have tried to verbally dissuade him at first, but he went to take her, and she fought back with some fervor."

"She managed to injure the man before she was subdued, presumably by stabbing him in the left leg. " Holmes continued. "He probably knocked her out. He then looked for the children, but was unable to find them. He would not have wanted to risk her waking up, so he would have decided to come back for the children later."

He had done just that with one of the earlier families.

Holmes frowned. "Why would she have made sure your desk was left undisturbed, Lestrade?"

The Inspector blinked. Hopkins nearly laughed, but managed to stop himself in time. Gregson smirked. "You don't bother Lestrade's desk." He said simply. "It's worse than stealing one of Hopkins' pencils."

"Hey!" The younger Inspector took offence. Lestrade watched their antics without interest, but did not rebuke them. Nor did he direct their attention back to the case at hand when they got sidetracked.

"Bradstreet cleaned all his pencils out of his desk once, as a joke." Gregson was saying. "The poor lad about had a nervous breakdown. But the last time someone touched Lestrade's desk…"

Hopkins shuddered. "Of course, you were just as bad when you realized someone had switched their office chair for yours." He grinned. "It took him all of an hour to track down the culprit."

"I loathe that man." Gregson fumed. "He's worse than Lestrade, here."

Holmes scowled at the two Inspectors. "I think we are getting sidetracked just a bit." He sniffed.

It was true. We were. But sometimes people needed to be sidetracked, and distracted. Sometimes people needed a break, and we had been working on this case for five weeks now.

And the fact that Lestrade hadn't bothered to recall their attention to the business at hand…

What little cheer had returned to the room filtered back out as we settled back to work.

"Why the Inspector?" Hopkins finally asked. "Isn't that just a little bit stupid? I mean, Lestrade's been on this from the start, and that's common knowledge, what with the way the papers have been attacking him."

Oh good heavens. I had forgotten about the papers. He shouldn't have to continue to deal with them now, not after what had happened.

Lestrade started, and dove for his notebook. He swore when he realized he didn't have one with him, and went for Gregson's chalkboard.

He was suddenly scribbling off a torrent of nonsense that Gregson eyed warily and Hopkins squinted at. "Slow down." The younger Inspector was saying, having pulled out his own notebook. I could only hope he was translating what I suddenly realized was the infamous shorthand that Lestrade was fond of.

Hopkins too was writing a mile a minute. He was allegedly the only other person in the Yard who could understand the stuff.

Holmes eyed Lestrade's scribbling and went to read over Hopkins' shoulder, though I didn't doubt he would come back to the shorthand later, when time allowed. His eyes widened, and he straightened up.

"You saw the kidnapper?" Holmes demanded.

Lestrade didn't answer, but kept writing. When Holmes went to repeat his question, Gregson hushed him. "Let him finish. He's trying to remember everything."

Holmes grumbled, but went back to reading over Hopkins shoulder. Gregson joined him. It was a mark of how occupied he was that the lad didn't even notice the two hovering over him. It was probably better that way.

Lestrade finished, and flopped back into his chair, absently rubbing his wrist. The other three were still occupied, so I took the opportunity to check on the Inspector.

He was in desperate need of sleep, I noted as he considered glaring at me. I knew he hadn't eaten all day. It was possible it had been longer than that since his last meal.

He did glare at me, when I asked. Then he shrugged. "I don't remember." He said. After a moment's thought, he was able to give a better answer. "Lunch, yesterday. I got called out before dinner."

"You aren't any use to anyone if you don't take care of yourself." I pointed out.

"So I've been told." Lestrade tried to smile. It didn't work. His wife had probably told him the same thing, I realized.

"I need to do some research." Holmes said abruptly.

I saw my chance. "Why don't we adjourn to Baker Street, then?" I suggested. If anyone could convince the Inspector to eat something, it would be our marvelous landlady. He would probably eat just to avoid being rude.

Holmes grinned. "Excellent idea, Watson." He replied. "I was just about to suggest the same thing myself."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	8. Chapter 8

Mrs. Hudson practically swept the Inspector off his feet the moment she saw him. She quickly brought tea up to the sitting room with the insistence that everyone must stay for dinner. I recognized that tone; if Baker Street caught on fire we were still having dinner tonight.

I managed to find what Holmes was looking for before he tore the sitting room apart, and the rest of us were left idle as he began combing through his books and papers.

Hopkins and Gregson didn't have to be told twice to take advantage of Mrs. Hudson's tea, but Lestrade simply sat there, running a finger around the rim of his cup distractedly.

He was fine as long as he had something to distract him. But just sitting, with nothing to keep him from thinking, he couldn't keep the façade up.

I wondered what that imagination Holmes had accused him of not having was conjuring up right now. Lestrade's face was blank, his eyes unfocused, staring into nothing.

"Drink the tea, Giles." Gregson broke into the man's thoughts, and he started. Then he turned his attention back to his tea, though what made him actually listen to the other Inspector, I didn't know. I was merely grateful that he had.

Once he had finished the tea, he went back to staring out into space. It could be a terrible thing, waiting for Holmes to find what he was looking for.

After a while, Gregson and Hopkins started talking quietly amongst themselves. It was a relief when Mrs. Hudson reappeared to claim the tea tray and informed us that dinner would be ready in an hour.

Our landlady stopped in front of Lestrade and looked him up and down. Then she tsked, loudly. "Come on, then, lad, you can help me in the kitchen." She said, and Lestrade blinked.

"Pardon?" He said.

Mrs. Hudson raised her eyebrows. "You do know what a kitchen is, correct?" She asked.

"Yes." He replied, puzzled. Behind our landlady, Gregson and Hopkins were puzzled as well. I was a bit confused myself.

"And you did _eventually_ learn how to do something without injuring yourself?" She persisted.

Lestrade stared at her as if he had seen a ghost. "How did you-"

Mrs. Hudson smiled, and reached for his hand. "Someone didn't show you how to peel potatoes before they set you to the task." She clarified, pointing out a barely noticeable scar on his right thumb. "But you did learn. Now come on, and dinner will be ready that much sooner."

I watched in confusion as Mrs. Hudson led the befuddled Inspector out the door and down to the kitchen.

Hopkins expression suddenly cleared. "Oh." He said. "She's giving him something to keep busy. That's what my mother used to do one of us was too ill to be out but not too ill to be bored. It took our minds off things."

That made sense. I silently blessed our landlady for what was not the first time. She was an amazing woman.

An hour later the two returned carrying dinner, and to my surprise Lestrade seemed to be discussing recipes, of all things, with our landlady.

"It has a softer flavor." He was saying as they entered. "My youngest, Olivia, can't handle the other. It leaves her with a stomach ache."

"Costs less too, I imagine." Mrs. Hudson was considering whatever he had suggested. Lestrade shrugged.

"That _was_ a side benefit, now that you mention it." He agreed. He looked less haunted than he had before Mrs. Hudson had recruited him. "Of course you have to slice it up, and the smell tends to linger. I always get a few odd looks whenever I come into work the next day."

"I wondered why you seemed so comfortable with a kitchen knife." Mrs. Hudson commented. "Now I expect you to eat something." She told him sternly, and it was then that he flushed. With indifference, she went on. "If you don't want people looking out for your welfare, you need to learn to take care of it yourself." She scolded.

It worked. He ate, though not enthusiastically.

"Trading cooking secrets?" Gregson teased as he dug into his meal.

"At least I don't have to worry about poisoning myself when the cook goes on holiday." Lestrade retorted, and this time it was Gregson who went red.

Hopkins was curious. "You can cook?"

Lestrade sighed. "I can cook." He confirmed.

Gregson grinned, fully prepared to take advantage of his fellow Inspector's improved mood. "Not only can he cook, Hopkins, he can cook well."

"But why?" Hopkins was skeptical.

Lestrade shrugged. "My ma was of the opinion that every bachelor should be able to take care of himself."

"That means he can cook, clean, and sew with the best of them." Gregson translated. "Put him in a dress, and-"

"Shut your gob." The retort was out before the Inspector could stop it, and he flushed as he realized what he had said.

Gregson was merely amused. Hopkins, as ever, was curious.

"Yes." Gregson answered the question in Hopkins' eyes, and Lestrade swore.

"Tobias, so help me, if you utter another word-" The small Inspector stabbed viciously at a vegetable.

Gregson simply laughed.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	9. Chapter 9

Hours had passed; Holmes was still reading. Gregson and Hopkins had dozed off, and Lestrade was pacing. I felt almost on the verge of dropping off myself, but was watching the Inspector as he tried to wear a path in the carpet.

He was trying not to think. Trying not to worry. Trying not to let it get to him, or at least, not to show that it was getting to him. He needed to rest.

_"Don't forget the chamomile." _I recalled the note from his wife, and pulled myself out of the comfort of my armchair. Lestrade never even seemed to notice as I slipped out of the sitting room.

I found Mrs. Hudson tidying up the kitchen. "I thought I heard you coming down the stairs." She smiled as she greeted me. "Is that Mr. Holmes, or the young Lestrade?"

"He's not all that young." I replied, startled.

Another smile. "He's young enough yet." She informed me, then sighed. "He needs some rest. "He's pushing himself too hard."

"I know." I agreed. "He's worried about his wife."

"Of course he is." Our landlady replied. "Kidnapping is no joke, and it's even worse when the victims have been drugged and abused into submission." Seeing my surprise, she huffed. "I read the papers like anyone else." She informed me. "And Mr. Holmes is not the only person who can observe. Now, what was it you needed?"

I hesitated. "Do you know anything about chamomile?"

"Tea?" She asked. "It's supposed to be soothing. Why?"

"Inspector Lestrade _does_ need to rest. He mentioned earlier that it helps him sleep."

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "I have chamomile tea. I could bring some up for those who are still awake." She offered. "Couldn't do you any harm, and Mr. Holmes won't touch it anyway."

"I can take it up." I offered. The woman nodded, and was soon busy filling a teapot with water.

Lestrade was still pacing when I returned with the tea, but he stopped almost as soon as I entered. He watched as I set the tray down and prepared myself a cup.

I settled back into my armchair. "Have a cup, Inspector. And a seat. Holmes isn't using it tonight."

He hesitated, but poured himself a cup, and after an uncertain glance towards Holmes, who was sprawled on the floor reading, set himself into Holmes' armchair.

He didn't drink immediately, but took a deep breath of the tea. That alone seemed to relax him considerably. He took a tentative sip, and sighed.

"It's not your fault." I said at last, hoping he wouldn't take offence.

Lestrade started, and nearly dropped his cup. "Pardon?" He whispered.

"I said it wasn't your fault."

His shoulder's slumped; he was tired of fighting, tired of trying to pretend nothing was wrong. "Indirectly, it was. I just happened to be there when he tried to take off with the young woman. I didn't realize who I was looking at and he escaped. He recognized me, I suppose, and retaliated by going after my wife." He scowled. "And if I had known I wouldn't have done a single thing differently." He took another drink. "Gone home sooner, I guess. But by the time everything was sorted out with the woman he tried to take he would have already gotten to Lizzie."

He glared at nothing in particular. "She'd prefer it were her instead of someone else. Long as the kids were safe."

I simply listened, knowing he needed to talk and knowing that if I spoke he would realize what he was doing and clam up.

After a moment he spoke again. "And the kids are safe, at least. That woman may think I'm the scum of the earth, but she won't hesitate to step in if I need to get the family out of the city." He must have truly been exhausted, because he was starting to ramble. "I'll be hearing about it for the next twenty years, of course, and when she finds out I didn't tell her about Lizzie-" He shuddered, and fell silent again.

He finished his tea, and set the cup aside with all the deliberation of a man trying extra hard not to drop or knock something over in the process of putting it down. He was completely exhausted, and was finally allowing himself to give in to it.

It wasn't much longer until his head dropped, and I breathed a sigh of relief. The Inspector had finally dozed off.

I allowed myself to drift off to sleep with that small amount of satisfaction.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	10. Chapter 10

We headed back to Scotland Yard after breakfast the following morning.

We turned the corner and walked right into a bunch of reporters. Lestrade had been in front, and was promptly surrounded when Gregson and Hopkins turned the corner a second later and instinctively backed up, pulling Holmes and myself with them.

What were they doing here?

There was a clamoring of voices, and Lestrade threatened for a moment to get lost in the confusion. But last night had done him good, and he raised his voice to a pitch that made Hopkins straighten up out of reflex.

"Now you all read the Strand, to keep an eye on competition, if nothing else." The small man's voice projected well. "And_ you_ help write it, for heaven's sake, Thompson. So you should know by now that I'm not the brains of the Yard. I can only understand you if you speak _one at a time_."

Lestrade was more eloquent, it seemed, when dealing with the papers. His statement got a few chuckles, and a few groans. It was an old joke, then.

"Any idea who's behind the kidnappings?" Someone asked. Lestrade considered for a moment before answering.

"We have a few suspects, but if you published them he might get nervous and make a run for it." The Inspector replied lightly. Another chuckle. He was on their good side today. One of the other Inspectors must have run seriously afoul of the papers lately, then.

"But you do have some definite leads." Someone else spoke up.

"Leads, yes. Definite? I'd say so." He paused. "Can we consider me properly molested yet? It really isn't fair that I get stuck in your mobs so easily."

"Is that for the record, sir?" Someone asked. This set off another bout of laughter. Gregson and Hopkins were looking relieved at the way things were going.

"His latest victim? Do you have a name?" Lestrade blanched. He was silent for a long moment, debating.

He made his decision, and drew himself up. "Elisabeth Lestrade." He said into the anticipatory silence. The reporters were floored. "As long as this maniac is still out there, _every man's _wife and childrenare in danger. The Yard is doing what they can to find him, but in the meantime, we advise that every possible precaution be taken. This is a very serious and very real danger, and should be treated accordingly. No further comment."

He moved forward, and the reporters scattered.

"Come on." Gregson said. Hopkins was shaking his head in shock. "Had to be done, lad. People need to know how dangerous this monster really is, and that anyone could be next."

Hopkins sighed, and nodded. The two took off after their fellow Inspector. Holmes and I followed after them.

I was surprised the reporters left us alone.

Scotland Yard was silent as we entered; by now everyone knew. They also seemed to know to leave the Inspector alone, because we made it to his office without being approached.

He stepped into his office, and Holmes nearly ran into him as he shied backwards. I caught a glimpse, before he pulled the door shut, of the board on his wall. Every inch of it seemed to be covered with scribbled notes, all in different scripts. Sympathy from his fellow Yarders, I speculated.

Gregson didn't bat an eye. "We'll use my office. My maps are better anyway." Lestrade nodded mutely, and we made our way down the hall.

We had identified our man: Charlie Hutton. He had been married and had several children, but had also been mentally unstable. One night he had simply beaten his wife and three children half to death before slitting their throats and leaving them dead in the streets. The police had never caught up with him.

Now we had only to figure out where he could be hiding. Holmes set to outlining several places on the map, and the next few hours were spent in narrowing down the search as much as we could.

Around noon there was a knock on the door, and a scowling Bradstreet poked his head in. "My wife's a wreck over this whole affair." He grumbled, apparently oblivious as Lestrade flinched. "She's packed enough lunch to feed an army. Always did overcook when she was nervous." He paused, hopefully. "Any way I can saddle some of this off on you lot?"

Hopkins was quick to agree, and a lunch break was soon in session. Bradstreet's wife had certainly packed a large lunch; it was enough to make one suspicious, especially when there just happened to be six small pastries for desert.

But it got Lestrade to eat, so nobody said a word, not even when Bradstreet left looking immensely pleased with himself.

By evening we had narrowed Hutton's hideout down to three possible places. Holmes decided to send the Irregulars to scope all three places out. Lestrade chafed at this, but didn't argue. He had seen the boys in action, and they would be able to find out, without being seen, which place held his wife.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	11. Chapter 11

Lestrade swore under his breath. He was getting better and better at it as the case wore on. We had found the right place, but didn't dare make our move until Hutton was there. If we went in now, Lestrade's wife would certainly be safe, but that wouldn't stop the kidnapper from seeking out his next victim.

We would wait until Hutton returned 'home.' Then we would act. Lestrade had opened his mouth to argue with Holmes' plan, and promptly shut it, though he had yet to stop glaring at my friend.

I couldn't really blame him.

Lestrade swore again, and Gregson flinched. "Heavens, man!" He exclaimed in an undertone. "Where on earth did you hear _that_ particular invective?"

Lestrade glared at him and swore once more just to prove he could do even worse. The man was crumbling under the strain. I wondered how much more he could take before he snapped completely.

"There." Holmes muttered, and everyone went still. We watched as the man Lestrade had described in his dubious shorthand limped down the street as if he hadn't a care in the world.

Lestrade tensed, and Gregson laid a restraining hand on the smaller man's shoulder. We also needed to catch him in the room with her. We didn't have near enough evidence yet to prove to the courts that this was our man.

Then Hutton was inside, and we were preparing to move. Holmes and I darted forward to cover the back door, and the Inspectors started for the front.

Holmes didn't bother picking the lock; he merely followed the example of what we could hear from around front and kicked the door open. We darted inside and saw the Inspectors all frozen in their steps. Then we saw why.

Hutton was supporting the woman by his side. He was also brandishing a knife and threatening to kill her if anyone so much as moved.

Elisabeth Lestrade's full weight was being supported by Hutton; she was so drugged there was no way she would have been able to stand on her own. She was in terrible shape. Her clothes were torn, her hair a mess, and there were bruises on her face and what we could see of her arms.

Lestrade himself was white as a ghost, and his eyes were darker than I had ever seen them, without a shred of reason or sanity in them. He was trembling all over and glaring at the man who had taken his wife. The man was well past rage, and far beyond fury. I could only hope he didn't do something extremely stupid.

"Easy, Giles." Gregson said softly.

Hutton was still waving his knife. "You cannot have my wife!" He cried. "You have taken my children, but you cannot have her! No one shall!" He turned his attention to the woman beside him.

And dropped the knife as she kneed him in the groin. He doubled over, and she bolted. He pulled himself upright, somehow, and started after her.

But by this time she had reached her husband, and Gregson and Hopkins closed in to prevent Hutton from reaching them. Holmes and I cut him off when he would have retreated, and his wild gaze settled on me before Gregson kicked his legs out from under him and sent him sprawling to the ground.

They had the derbies on him in the next second, and the two Inspectors were dragging him outside, and were being none too careful about it as they shoved him down the stairs and out onto the street below.

Holmes followed them after casting an alarmed glance in the direction of the Lestrades.

It was hard to say who was comforting whom. Both were holding each other tightly, and while Mrs. Lestrade was mumbling frantically into her husband's ear, the Inspector's head had fallen to rest on her shoulder, as they were both about the same height.

Finally she quieted, and he looked up. "You weren't drugged?" He asked, and the woman replied with a disdainful laugh.

"The poor fool only gave them another dose when it seemed they were becoming aware again." She licked her dry, cracked lips. "As long as I seemed oblivious, he didn't think he needed to give me any more."

The Inspector tried to smile. "That's my girl." He managed to choke out.

"The kids?"

"With your mother." With that they pulled themselves together, and he was supporting her instead of embracing her. "Come let the Doctor look you over, Lizzie."

"You're a mess." She observed as he led her to a battered couch. He tried to laugh, but couldn't. "Hello Doctor." She greeted me as I joined them. "He's in better condition than I could have hoped, but you really should be ashamed of yourself for letting him get this way."

She was bruised, and dehydrated, and weak from hunger, but was otherwise in better shape than I had hoped. She was a strong woman, though, and it seemed being reunited with her husband was doing wonders for her already.

It seemed to be doing wonders for him as well.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	12. Chapter 12

_Author's Note: _Last chapter, but don't worry, I have a new story, _Close Call_, that has been impatiently waiting its turn for publication. I also have, in case anyone is interested, a sort of timeline for the _Sherlock Holmes _stories I have written on my profile, since they haven't been written or published in chronological order. Anyway, not much to this, just a bit of fun, enjoy._

* * *

_

_One Week Later_

Holmes sighed and fidgeted impatiently. Gregson groaned. I resigned myself to checking my watch to make sure the time was right.

Inspector Lestrade was never late.

"Finally!" Gregson burst out. "Lestrade, get over here!" The man in question looked up, and altered his speed ever so slightly.

"Where the devil have you been?" Holmes demanded impatiently. "You're almost an hour late!"

"Sorry." Lestrade replied. I wasn't convinced he was. He didn't look immesely regretful.

"Sorry?" Gregson demanded. "Sorry? You're never late. You aren't half an hour late, you aren't five minutes late, you aren't thirty seconds late. What happened?"

Lestrade suddenly looked uncomfortable. "I was delayed." Seeing the alarm on both Holmes and the other Inspectors' faces, he quickly amended his statement. "Distracted."

"Distracted." Gregson repeated. "By what?" Lestrade didn't answer, but the other Inspector was determined not to let it go. "By what?" He demanded, a threatening note in his tone.

Lestrade flushed. "By my wife." He bit out the reply.

"By your-?" Lestrade turned even redder as Gregson caught on and looked completely mortified. Holmes shifted uncomfortably, coughed, and looked up.

"Have we wasted enough time?" He demanded.

Lestrade was all business, and Gregson was struggling to recover. Both nodded. "Sorry for keeping you, Mr. Holmes." Lestrade said, and Gregson lost his composure all over again.

Holmes paid him no notice, but quickly dove into a rapid fire explanation of what we had been doing and why he needed the Yard's assistance.

Lestrade considered. "You'll want to call in Hopkins or Bradstreet for this one, Mr. Holmes. I can't help you."

"And just why not?" Holmes demanded.

Lestrade threatened to blush again. "You're talking about a stakeout that will probably take the rest of the evening to set up and will last through most of the night. I have a curfew. Wife wants me in no later than nine, and I'm not about to argue with her."

Holmes frowned. Then he darted off after one of the Inspectors in question. Bradstreet eyed his fellow Inspectors warily, no doubt trying to surmise why Gregson's face was scarlet and what Lestrade had done to make it that color.

Lestrade nodded briskly. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I have work to do." He turned and headed for his office.

Bradstreet stared after him, then looked back at Gregson. When he looked to me, it was a plea for help. "What-?"

"Don't ask." I told him firmly.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


End file.
